Speak to Me
by annemarieknight
Summary: Long before Bella was even a star, much less thought of...Edward met someone else. Edward/OC
1. Prologue

For as long as I could remember, I had been alone in the large house on Newberry Street, though five others inhabited the rooms with me. My mother, father, two younger sisters, and baby brother. Every m morning, I woke to the sound of his crying and the twins' bickering. I came downstairs, where my mother handed me a slice of bread and piece of fruit without saying good morning. My father brushed through eventually, on his way to the bank, only slowing for a feelingless kiss on my mother's cheek, and a matching pair of well-rehearsed hugs for my sisters. He didn't speak as he brushed by me in my usual place on the stool by the window. He never did.

When sufficient "family time" had passed, I would go upstairs to my room, tie my hair back in a pink ribbon which stood out against my dark hair, and write. Or read. Music, books, sketches, scattered pieces of ink-covered pages covered the floor of my chamber, my tower, my sanctuary.

And I was alone again, until hunger or natural reasons forced me from my room.

But you see, I could not count the times I was with my family, they were as swift and as forced as a speech in front of a crowd. I had the feeling that even if I _was_ able to talk to them, I wouldn't. And even if I did, they wouldn't answer.

And that is why I was alone.

When I'd made this mess, I'd had no clue it would be so difficult to pick up, nor so important that I did it quickly.

I'd had enough. Enough of being the martyr, the oppressed, their tool, their inside trick for a better life.

Use me. Marry me off. How dare they?

I'd been informed at breakfast that morning that there was a wealthy man I'd been betrothed to since birth, now returning to London to "claim" me.

_How is that fair?!_ I raged within my mind. _I don't even know him…he doesn't even know me…_ I threw a pile of poetry I'd written back when the world made a little more sense into my bag. It would have to be sold, almost everything would have to be sold…and that would only be enough for a small chamber on Market Street.

_I don't care._ I thought. _At least I won't be here._

I drew my bag shut, the clasps only barely meeting over all the bulk of my life's work so far, the other bag was smaller, it held a few of my skirts, blouses, and dressed, and a few hair ribbons among other essentials. I threw it over my shoulder carelessly, and clutched the larger satchel to my chest, taking many deep and measured breaths before I opened my door.

My bare feet made little sound as I descended the stairs, scarcely daring to breathe lest it caused someone to wake up. With my luck, tonight would be the night my parents woke at a sound so small and usually innocent.

The house was looking old, everything dust-covered and creaky with age and lack of polish. At one time, I would have been sure to meet a lone servant or two, even at this hour, polishing something or other by the weak and fading light of a candle. Since we'd begun losing money though, there was no room for servants in the house, for there was no money to pay them.

_I wish I'd been born like this…_ I thought bitterly, passing through a long-since closed off parlor to our front door. If I had been, no wealthy man would have promised himself to me, expecting to align himself to receive more money once we married.

A tear rolled down my cheek, not in sadness of leaving my home, or even my family, but in desire. Desire raced through my heart and head, desire to be normal, to be myself, to be free.

At the time, I did not realize that I would never be normal, nor that I would be faced with more than a few challenges that were far from being mediocre. And as I slipped my feet onto the shoes by the oak door, I stopped crying. I rarely cried anyway, even alone.

I opened the door and ignored its creaking, sure that even if someone heard me now, I'd have plenty of time to get away. I didn't even find it hard, not looking back as I walked away.

They didn't believe in me, no one did. I only had myself, and my writing and music.

But somehow, that thought made me happier than anything ever had, and as I ran into the night, I knew I was running away from more than my fiancée, but did not suspect that I was running toward anything more than a new home and a new life.

There was so much more waiting, so much more than I ever thought I'd deserve.

Ah well, surprises are more interesting anyway.


	2. Chapter One

I shut the door to my one-room quarters behind me as I dropped the pieces I hadn't been able to sell on the table I at off of. Considering the things I'd had to overcome in the past month, things were going relatively well.

The first two weeks, I lived with an elderly woman, kind enough to allow me to stay until I got enough money to pay her a small sum after selling most of my work. With the money my life's accomplishments (paintings, poems, stories) brought, I paid her and found a small room the landlord rented out at a low rate. Since, I'd painted as often as I could, in order to make a profit, and though they weren't up to my usual standard, rushed as I was, they brought enough to keep me alive. In addition, I offered to write letters or compositions for those who would rather dictate than write for themselves.

It was a rushed lifestyle, lived in the excitement of Market Street and hasty work to make a living. It would have been burdensome to some, but to me, it seemed I'd never been freer. It was a feeling which could not be surpassed by anything I'd felt before (except salvation and fellowship with God), and as far as I knew, my family had no clue as to my whereabouts, though I was sure they were frantic for me now that I was not there, or, frantic for their key to fortune in any case.

And so, each night, I found myself satisfied as my head lay on the pillow, there was nothing I wanted, even _could_ want…save one thing.

And even I didn't know how I longed for it yet.

A typical morning on Market Street.

I shoved my way through to my usual spot, a rather unnoticeable corner that had been quite unoccupied before my arrival. Now, I sat down the little stool I carried and propped my paintings against the building wall, bright colors contrasting the naturally dim and mucky air of London. Once they were set up, I took out my portfolio and sat down on the stood to write while waiting for a customer.

My usual business was with the tourists who passed by unintentionally, unaware that Market Street was not the place to spend their money. However, my advantageous position at the first end of the street brought me the little they did spend. Also, I caught the occasional wealthy citizen, curious, or perhaps just thrifty. Either way, money was money, and it pleased me. I never thought so many would be interested in my work, my passions, my art.

Today, ten canvases leaned against the brick, waiting, some watching, some listening, others screaming at the crowd, a language of colors only few could understand. One was simply a flower, its only unique quality that it was growing out of a wall, sticking out into the air at an awkward place over the sidewalk. Another, similar to many I had painted before, was an empty house, ten to twelve staircases filling family-less space. These were always eerily familiar to most of my customers. One among them was a face without any features, and though most found paintings such as these disturbing, there were the few who had taste in the strange and surreal. Others were of landscapes, animals partaking of fresh green grass, things people only dreamed of in London.

Perhaps the living once again appears meager, and it is true that with my selective customers, I did not make nearly as much as other businessmen and venders on the street, but I did not have a family to support, so my small earnings were enough.

An hour passed, and a man in a long green coat and matching top hat bought the picture of the flower in the wall, and he had been followed shortly after by a woman who looked as though she felt extremely out of place on Market Street with her long dress of pink silk, layers and layers of lacy petticoats inflating it to pool around her. She stayed only at my end of the street long enough to buy the featureless face.

As she hurried away, my canvas tucked tightly beneath her arm, the lot next to me became occupied as the normal grungy man began setting up. He always arrived an hour after me, his mood as foul as his smell.

Like myself, he was an artist, the only one that had been here I supposed, before me. He was not heavyset, but his muscles bulged out ominously beneath his dirty shirt, which must have once been white. His face looked as though, had his life played out differently, it would have been gentle and kind, with soft features. It was a face I might have once liked to paint. But, as it was, life had not been kind. His contour lines were sharp and jagged, everything jutting out as a result of starvation. His facial hair was oil black and untended, spreading across his skin unevenly, and the hair on his head just as undesirable. As usual that morning, he smelled of alcohol, and also per routine, he set out paintings that were sloppy and desolate, though I imagined he'd once been very talented. He rarely had a buyer, and even I felt sorry for him, my only competition.

I smiled at him, I always did, it was the closest I could come to saying 'good morning,' and he wouldn't respond, he never did.

I went back to my writing, and he stood in front of his work, clapping his hands and planting a smile on his face, taking his normal approach to trying to sell his paintings.

"Come one, come all! Parvatio's irresistible magic of color and shape will brighten your home better than sunlight and are twice as beautiful!"

And so on and so forth. After a few days, one started to hear the same things over and over. I highly doubted his name was really Parvatio, as there was no way that man had a drop of Italian blood in his veins.

The morning continued as such, I sold another painting (a duck pond filled with lily pads and a single swan), and Parvatio sold none. After two hours of fruitless work, he took to the liquor bottle in his coat pocket, and commenced pulling uninterested strangers out of the crowd.

"Do you like this? Do you? I know you do…will you buy it? Buy it?"

Finally, a very offended man pushed him off, and he landed among the paintings with a clatter as they all fell down around him.

I got to my feet and hastily crossed the short distance to where he lay, and held out a hand to help him up.

He took it at first, but upon looking into my face and focusing long enough to realize who I was, he shoved my hand away roughly and got to his feet as I stepped back, slightly frightened. Drunken men would try anything. He pointed a chubby finger as he spoke to me for the first time, his words running together like paint with too much water.

"You…you stole all of my…business." He had to stop and sway every few words. "You're the reason I'm…going under."

I shook my head, my eyes wide in shock at his words. From what I'd heard, he hadn't sold more than a few paintings a month even before I came. He'd been "going under" for a while.

Coming forward, he grabbed my arm, pulling me upward so close to his face that I felt faint from his rancid breathe.

"You'll…pay. I'm poor because of you. Stop…coming here, or…you'll pay."

He shoved me away roughly, then stumbled off into the mix of London mist and smog.


	3. Chapter Two

That night passed quicker than most, and though I'd come home with no paintings, having sold them all, I felt as though it had been a bad day. I could not get Parvatio's (or whoever he was) words to leave my memory. He'd told me not to come back, and as I sat finishing a portrait to sell the following day, I knew I was going to, I had to. This was my life now, and I liked it. My only comfort was that he'd been a drunken mess when he'd spoken these words, practically raving. Certainly he wouldn't even remember falling or pushing me away…but what if the sight of his desecrated lot, the painting strewn over the dirty pavement, remind him? I couldn't safely go and really be sure that nothing would happen. I was afraid…

As I lay in bed that night though, I thought about everything I'd come through to get here, how hard I'd worked, and how the only other choice I had would be to return home to be married off.

I refused to let that happen, not over some drunken fool. It was time I grew a backbone anyway, and I felt courageous as I drifted off into a deep sleep.

The next morning, I once again set up, looking over my shoulder often, something I'd never done, or thought I'd had to do. Despite my uneasiness though, it was only another eventless morning, though I did sell a painting for twice the asking price to an elderly woman with towering gray hair and a silver billowing cloak who refused to "pay so little for something so beautiful." No matter how many time I brandished the price tag at her, she remained just as obstinate, and I only ended up with a large roll of one hundred pound notes in my hand as she walked away and my face shone with a bright smile. I gently tucked them into the front pocket of my skirt, already bulging with pens and brushes and paint, and I sat down again, picking up the notepad I'd lain aside to negotiate with the elderly lady.

I looked down at my own neat script on the page, slightly runny in my classic rushed writing. I had always had plenty of time to write, but it was my greatest fear that I would forget the perfect combination of words in my head before they had the chance to flow through my pen onto the paper. It rarely happened, but that fact did not stop me from hastily scratching out the words of whatever poem, story or letter I was working on.

This particular day, I was in the mood for writing romance, so I took out a story I'd begun years before, and wrote in periodically over time. It was a tragic, but juvenile tail really, of mythical creatures like vampires, forgotten then remembered love. It was a story that never came true in reality, but I couldn't bring myself to put it away, never finish it. First stories seemed to cast some sort of spell on writers.

I was in them idle of the first meeting, a vital part in any romance, but I was having trouble describing the feelings as the main character met her soul mate. It wasn't as though it was a feeling I was familiar with. I'd never even fallen in love, but then again, I'd never really wanted to. I was quite content with my life as it was, I had books and pain and writing for company.

I leaned down closer to the page, my knuckles supporting my head by my chin, as though by staring at the page, I would fall into the story and meet my characters personally. It was a funny thought, and I smiled a bit, thinking about what I could possibly say…

'Yes, I was just wondering, how exactly does it feel to fall in love?'

Of course, in this fantasy, I could speak.

I sat back up straight, sighing as I realized I'd put all the thought I could manage into this piece today. I closed my portfolio and stood, intending to head over to my bag and put it away until tomorrow, when I saw him.

Across the street, there was a narrow alleyway, each day. I took it to go home, it was a bit of a shortcut. At its end, there was a sudden drop, which I jumped and it brought me out almost directly behind the house where my landlord and I lived. That's why I didn't take it in the mornings though; I couldn't climb the wall with my paintings, satchel, and stool. It was dark and unfriendly, and I usually walked quickly through its dark shadows when I traveled at night. Fortunately, nothing horrible had befallen me yet.

In its opening, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and a cold stare, was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Even that was an understatement, but I, a writer, was at a loss for words to describe him, even to myself. He was unnaturally pale, but it somehow made him even harder to look away from, and he seemed to glow in the midst of the gray haze London was constantly engulfed in. His mouth was set in a narrow line, accentuating his high and graceful cheekbones in sharp contrast, and above his brows, which seemed knitted in high concentration, unruly bronze hair moved discreetly in a slight breeze I seemed to be disconnected from. And finally, the only part of him I found remotely disturbing, deep black eyes. I felt I was close enough to pinpoint scarlet speckled in them as well, though I was at least fifty yards away across Market Street. And he was staring at me. No matter how many bustling people passed between us, his eyes were locked on me every time I saw them. I was frozen in place, standing there, mesmerized as though he'd cast some sort of spell over me, just with his gaze.

I realized slowly how I must look to him, and became conscious of my own body again, though I still couldn't move. My mouth was hanging halfway open, my chest rising and falling as I breathed a little faster than usual. My pen lay on the sidewalk where it had fallen from my fingers, and my vampire book hung limply from my other hand. And suddenly, the strangest thought came to my head, though I knew nothing about him, not his name, his age, what he did, who he was…

'Maybe this is what it feels like…'

All this happened in what could not have been more than a second, and the next second came at me without warning. I was shoved back against the wall roughly, my book joining my pen on the sidewalk. My head hit the side of the corner building roughly and I grimaced. It took me a moment to realize it was Parvatio breathing in my face, though the fact that I felt I'd fall over at any moment from the smell should have been an immediate give-away.

"I thought I told you not to come back." He said, holding me to the wall by the top portion of my arm, his large hand easily wrapped around my entire limb.

I stared back defiantly, my free fist clenched, ready to punch if he ever took his weight off of me and freed me.

"This is your last warning." And he threw me back roughly, moving quicker than I thought possible before I had a chance to react.

Leaning there for a moment, I breathed evenly, though there wasn't a bit of indecision that I would be back tomorrow as usual. It was easier than I'd thought, this not being afraid, what was the worst he could do?

Eventually, I bent and retrieved my notebook and pen from the ground, then hesitantly raised my eyes back to the alleyway across the street. Of course, he was gone. I shook myself lightly, but even without a second try, I knew no amount of shaking would make me forget his cold, hard stare. Or anything of the man who'd made me think maybe true love wasn't a fairy tale for less than second that felt like half my life.

Well, at least not a fairy tale for the woman he loved, which most certainly wasn't me.

Somehow, the thought was sad.


	4. Chapter Three

The rest of that day was not uneventful, but it seemed that way in comparison to Parvatio's "final warning.'…and the man in the alleyway. He was the most interesting by far. Not just for that day either, but my entire life. Up until the moment our eyes had met, it now seemed boring and utterly empty. I had never felt that way about it before, but it was an unavoidable reality that that glimpse had offered me a look at the fact that there was something more –much more- out there.

Thoughts such as these pooled in my mind the rest of that day, creating a sort of cloud over perception of everything else. Nothing I did seemed to work out, I couldn't write, couldn't paint, and was absentminded with customers. I felt inadequate and irresponsible, wonderful and special, confused and perplexed, amazed and dazzled, but more than anything, I was dissatisfied. It was an unfamiliar emotion, but I recognized it immediately, and eventually, I decided that I must have felt this way for a long time without realizing it.

And so, before I really even knew what was happening, the day had ended, and my shroud of solitude seemed even thicker as I packed up my things and left, walking much slower than usual. At some point, my eyes relayed the information to my brain that it was quite dark, I'd stayed out much later than usual. Slowly, I emerged out of my deep pondering state as fear began to overcome me. On its best (but few) bright and sunny days, London could be a dangerous place, one full of vandals and brigands and drunkards. And this was not even a murky London day, it was a pitch-black night, even the last of the lamps had been snuffed out. How could I have let this happen?! Been so absentminded…I thoroughly blamed the strange man in the mouth of the alleyway, though there wasn't much I would trade for that single second I'd seen him. I eyed the cobblestones below my feet, I'd never thought of myself as a desperate woman, but it was the first word that came to my mind in my vast writers' vocabulary. What on earth had he done to me?

I clutched my notebook to my chest, suddenly wishing I had not sold all my paintings and had more to pace between myself and whatever awaited in the darkness than this thin sheaf of pages, which seemed like little compared to the various things y imagination was conjuring up to wait for me between where I was and home.

Out of nowhere, a heavy rain descended upon the already ominous night, and this was the only reason I walked faster across the street.

At this point, I'd made it into the alley, _the_ alley, the one that would lead me home, the one where _he'd _been. Somehow, I felt safer. I could see everything in the small cramped space, there were no unexplained movements or concealing shadows, and I was that much closer to home. Only a small jump lay between my front door and me once I made it the length of the alley. I encouraged myself in this way, gaining more and more courage as I continued. It was the least I'd thought about him all day. Perhaps by the morning, I'd come to my senses and forget I'd ever seen him. Not likely, but still, a chance was there. Oh, who was I kidding? I could never forget him…never in a hundred lifetimes would his eyes, his stare, his very posture and elegance and dazzling charm leave my memory. So, was I doomed to be miserable the rest of my life? Always know there was something out there it was possible to have –to love- that I didn't? I hung my head, the feelings I'd been having that day made it disturbingly easy to believe that I very well _could_ spend the rest of my life pining for him, this man that I'd never even met, only admired from a distance.

Ironically, this was the last thought I remembered thinking before I was up against the wall. I realized there was immense pressure holding me there, pinning me to the wall with inhuman strength, mostly against my two shoulders. It was a second before it even registered that they were two human –or human looking- hands. And this against me was also human. Or was he? Unlike most women, I could not scream, so I spent my time looking, there was no room to struggle, whoever he was, he'd done this a million times and completely overpowered me anyway. I didn't have a chance. I still couldn't resist breathing hard though as I shook my stringy mass of drenched hair out of my eyes and gazed up at his face.

At first, I didn't connect this wild and crazed, well, monster, with the man from earlier, but there was no doubt it was him. His teeth were barred, his eyes wild and black and frightening. Somehow, even like this, barbaric and wet and terrifying with water rolling off of his face in endless currents, he was still captivating, and I didn't' feel as frightened as I should have, though he was looking at me with hunger and desire. It was the most inopportune moment, but I somehow managed to notice that I was enjoying his touch, even if he was hurting me.

Slowly, it dawned on me that I should be dead by now, if he was the monster he seemed…I'd had much too much time to think…I didn't know what exactly he was, but I had a feeling he didn't usually drag this out for so long. He was looking at me too, almost the same way I was looking at him. He looked confused and shocked, but still beautiful. Slowly, it seemed as though his terrible, vicious self melted away, even though his eyes were still black. His mouth was not so threatening now, but hung open in perplexed wonder, his face still perfect. And last, the pressure on my left, and I slid down the wall, something I had not intended, every muscle sore and weak as though I'd been running tensed and afraid for miles and miles. All this from the minute or so of his weight on top of me.

I looked up at him, and he looked down at me, neither of us moving, why wasn't he killing me?

And then, he was gone, completely. I hadn't even seen him more, he just wasn't there anymore. He'd disappeared.

I sat there for a long time, breathing hard and staring at the other wall, thinking of what had just happened…had it happened? I was beginning to wonder if I was going insane. I eventually stood up and unbuttoned my blouse, sliding the sleeve off of my shoulder and feeling the rain hit my skin…on five deep purple lines there. Bruises. From his finger. I slid my own over them, feeling the burn where they barely touched the dark stripes…

It was nearly an hour before I gathered up my soaked notebook and went home with one last long glance at the alley behind me, wondering if he was somewhere in the shadows I'd earlier deemed innocent. Watching me.


	5. Chapter Four

I don't recall sleeping that night, but then, when something happens like what had happened to me, it seems as though we can only think of that. We go to sleep thinking about it, wake up thinking the same thing, and it's as if sleep never happened. But either way, one wakes up exhausted.

I very nearly stayed in bed all day. It was a tempting thought to imagine lying there on my mattress wrapped in the warm folds of my blankets as I stroked the bruises on my right arm over and over. They burned more now when I touched them, but it was a strangely pleasant pain, reminding me he existed, I hadn't dreamed him or simply fervently wished one of my past characters to life. Well, even if the second choice were possible, I never could have imagined anyone so unbearably perfect. He was so…beyond imagining that the memory of him was challenging to wrap my mind around. There was just no way he was…normal. Whatever he was, mere people, humans, like me, were not designed to resist that depth and amount of beauty.

But as the sun peeked through my window, I remembered the promise I'd made myself the day before (a small 24 hours ago?) that I would return to Market Street to sell my paintings. This was the soul reason I pulled myself up, got dressed and gathered my work and stool to carry to my usual spot. I'd been in no condition to paint upon arriving home the previous night (my hands shaking badly hours after the strange event), so these were old paintings that I'd chosen not to sell before, either because of quality or sentimental attachment. Today, however, the mysterious and beautiful man had caused me to _have _to take them. Hopefully, at least one would sell. And so I trudged through the crowd to my corner, setting up to wait for something, anything, to happen that might possibly make this day measure up to the one before. A false hope. I was sure.

The hours of the morning dragged by, the high point being the tiny old man who bought a single, low-priced painting that was not one of my best and praising it as though it were Van Gogh or Da Vinci's work. Only a few days ago, I had been content with this, the same routine day after day, each person interesting, and a story behind the painting they bought. I now had no interest in thinking up reasons or motives for their purchases, the fact that I had used to do that seeming juvenile and immature.

Nothing was good enough, nothing was colorful, I hadn't even the urge to write.

It would be at the end of this torturously long day that things would once again become interesting enough to engage my attention. I had no idea that Parvatio's absence that day (had the fact even registered?) would become significant.


	6. Chapter Five

Walking home, I was shocked at the fact that I'd even managed to sell all of my paintings. Of course, I had minimal interaction with my customers due to my lack of the ability to speak, but I had managed to have even less today somehow or other. Still though, I had the presence of mind to leave for home before dark that time. Although, I feel it necessary to say that the possibility of waiting until nightfall again and setting off down the side alley crossed my mind. However, I was too frightened that _he_ would not come and I would be left even more desolate than I already was. I wasn't sure if I could handle that. Much more disinterest and lack of activity and I wasn't certain I would even still be considered human.

My feet made very little noise on the cobblestones as I walked nervously down the alleyway to reach the jump that led to home. I did not look to my sides very much, half afraid of what I might see and half afraid of what I might not see. Did that fear have a name? Nothing quite frightened me as much as a lack of words. A world without them was one I couldn't write in, and a world I could not write in had little purpose. Even in this dull and awful state, I knew I could write again if I chose.

Perhaps the solution to this situation was to do just that, regain a sense of normalcy. At that moment, I became determined, a little like my old self. How could I have let this stranger do this to me?! I was myself. Independent. Right that second, I began mulling over new plot ideas, story line and characters began to take shape in my mind, and I had every intention of picking up my pen and doing something about them when I got home. I didn't need _him. _I didn't need anyone. I had myself.

It was these thoughts I was thinking when I reached my door and absentmindedly inserted the key into the keyhole, dragons and wizards, painters and knights, damsels in distress…

When the door swung open, it took a moment for me to understand what I was seeing. First, I thought that some wild animal had gotten in, but the movements and results were too deliberate and meaningful, so that could not be the case. Then, I thought the landlady might have been looking for something. After all, it was part of the bargain that she had the right to search my room, but she would not have gone to this extent. After that, I considered a burglary, but nothing a robber would have stolen seemed to be missing. The little jewelry I had was left untouched, as were my dishes, all my clothes, and the silver I'd brought from home. So, in the span of one minute or less, I came to this conclusion that this had been done by someone, on purpose, with meaning. And if I hadn't thought they were my enemy before, they most definitely were now.

Paper lay on the floor everywhere I could see, blank sheets of white making the boards appear painted that color. They were all ripped as well into smaller and smaller pieces everywhere I looked. They were useless now. The paintings I had left over from previous days or had created a few nights before to use later were nowhere in sight, save but a few of the worse ones thrown into the corners or smeared over with different colors. All the drawers of my desk were open, the documents or manuscripts inside wither thrown somewhere I couldn't see or town on the floor I was sure…oddly enough, nothing else was touched.

I stepped tenderly into the mess, tears burning in my eyes as I looked around, my lips pressed firmly together.

When I reached the middle of the room, I slowly lowered myself to my knees, my hands shaking as I reached out and began picking up the remains of three of the most important things to me, paper, pens, and paint. I methodically moved out from the center, creating a ring of clean floor that moved outward from the point where I'd begun. It did not take me long to realize that what I most feared had indeed been what had happened, and tears fell soundlessly onto the blank paper as I picked it up and threw it away. They continued to fall as I replaced the pens into their glass on my desk, and the pain cans to their place on my windowsill, next to which sat my now blank easel. The ruined canvases, I placed on the wall in neat lines, I did not have the heart to allow my tears and me to throw them away.

I sat down on my bed and looked at the room, empty like myself. All my work, unfinished and finished stories, poems, simple jotted ideas, and my journal…gone.

He had warned me, and now he'd followed through.


	7. Chapter Six

At that point, I didn't really care very much about anything. Stories could be rewritten, plot lines redrawn, even refined, even the journal wasn't completely irreplaceable, but still…the exact combination of words I'd put together, the perfectly planned sequences…all the writing aside, the immense amount of _work_ that had been put into it. That could not be gotten back. It was as though half of me had disappeared, the good half at that, the pieces of myself that were worth something. I never should have challenged Parvatio, tried to be a hero, it had been my simply but complete undoing.

Why had I decided to be so reckless? I had never been that sort of person, and now it seemed so out of place remembering. Maybe it was because the man/monster had made me feel so weak and before I had believed I was strong and independent. The difference between now and then was laughable.

I got out of bed to make myself a bowl of soup around two, but I didn't really taste it. My fingers twitched to write on the few pieces of paper left in tact, but I hadn't the heart. To pass time, I got dressed and went to Market Street, walking slowly past all of my fellow merchants. None of them spoke to me. Most of them didn't know about my disability, so I probably seemed very unsocial to them anyway, they had no reason to try to make conversation. I hadn't enough money to buy anything, but even if I had, this was not a trip to purchase things. There was no doubt in my mind that Parvatio would be in his usual place, only not selling his usual paintings. I was sure that my paintings and my writing would be gathering money for him. I was also certain that no one would notice the sudden change, or if they did they wouldn't care. The corner just ahead was all that hid our lots from sight, and my walk seemed to slow though it wasn't a conscious action on my part. I hugged myself, afraid of what I would do if I saw what I expected. No violence, no, I wouldn't be brave for a while yet, but I was terrified of exploding from the inside out in silence. I turned the corner almost in slow motion, the people around me seeming to move much faster than usual. A man scoffed and bumped past me, agitated at my hesitance. I watched him go, then refocused my attention…I stepped around the wall.

The lots were there, my own obviously empty, and Parvatio's…was empty.

I blinked a few times and then stepped out into the crowd again. Against the stream of pedestrians, I crossed the street, and reached the lot. I stared down in confusion. Not only was his lot empty, but the paintings from the day he'd fallen and scattered them still lay untouched. He hadn't been by his lot since the time he'd first threatened me. I shook my head a bit, folding my arms. Why would he steal my best paintings only to keep them by, useless?

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

I unlocked my door and stepped out of the now-falling rain into my dark and warm rooms. The sun was shrouded in rain clouds as usual, its dim contribution to the light of my fire made everything look gray. Shadows flickered, making even inanimate objects seem to move across surfaces. For some reason, I felt nervous as I shut the door…wary. I could swear there was someone looking at me from some hidden corner. The feeling was familiar, I stepped further into the room, trying to be casual, it was only my room, the same as always, but my fists were clenched at my side.

Something moved in the corner, I turned toward it with a sharp gasp. Nothing was there but flickering shadows.

_It's only mice…_I thought to comfort myself.

A low hum that almost sounded like a dark chuckle came from the corner behind me, and I whirled around again, my heart beating faster. Again, nothing. Either I was going insane, or there was someone very fast, cruel, and nearly invisible playing a terrible joke. Or, it was mice. It wasn't as though mice couldn't make noises.

Clattering from the corner where my portraits were. I turned, slowly this time, whatever it was would be gone by the time I looked anyway. I stared at the corner a moment, then realized…what was different. Walking over silently, I bent low and looked at the paintings, then brushed my fingers over the purple and yellow in a field of dandelions and tulips. This painting had been missing last night…and so had all the others sitting around it. I jumped to my feet and touched every one, more of the missing ones also sat behind those in front. Every single canvas, all of my previous work that had been stolen, returned. I covered my mouth with my right hand because I was smiling so ridiculously. My eyes felt wet with tears of joy. I wanted to clutch each and every painting to my chest and dance for happiness. I settled for standing and taking a few deep breaths instead. All that was missing now was my writing. Perhaps it had mysteriously returned as well.

I almost ran over to my desk, but there was nothing on it, nor in the drawers when I jerked them open violently. I stood back up and put my hands on my hips, perhaps it would appear later. I turned back to the corner, they were all still there, I wasn't dreaming, and I hadn't dreamed their disappearance. That sorrow had been too intense to be a subconscious illusion. I was more than certain Parvatio hadn't had a change of heart. So how had they returned? Who…or maybe what…had brought them back? I was still standing in the warm firelight when a knock sounded through the door.

I didn't really think much about what I was doing as I walked toward the door, even my eyes still lingered on the corner full of canvases. I fumbled for the knob, and when at last I gripped it firmly, pulled the door open. Ripping my eyes from the corner, they found a new (and much better) fixations. There, in my doorway, he stood, the most beautiful, most captivating man I'd ever seen, would ever see no doubt, and I didn't even know his name.

His eyes were the color of fire shrouded in thick smoke, black covering red, but I could only just see them. He kept looking up, then down again, afraid to meet my eyes. Still though, he stood straight and tall, but he seemed to be trembling beneath his black shirt and breeches, as though resisting some terrible temptation. Only just. I had never in my life wished so fervently to be able to say the word 'hello.' I might even have opened my mouth a bit, but the memory seems so distant I can't really recall. I also feel that I must have had some sort of expression of pain, as much as it was hurting me to see him and not know him. It seemed to take all my strength to look away, and I moved awkwardly, not even knowing where to place my own hands. I moved my right tentatively back to the edge of the door, hardly letting it rest there. My left came up to tuck my hair behind my ears and then rub my temple, hiding my eyes for a moment.

He moved, though it seemed forced and unnatural, and began to extend his hands to me. My heart thumped at the thought of touching him, but then I realized he was holding out his hands to give me something. Clasped safely between his long graceful fingers was a sheaf of paper that looked at least eight inches thick. All of my writing, my entire life held between his hands.

He cleared his throat, then spoke slowly and clearly, each word articulated with artistic perfection. "Pardon my coming here, I didn't mean to disturb you, I only wanted to return these to their proper owner." He held them out to me again, almost cautiously, his arms doing most of the reaching. He couldn't have been any less than two feet away from me.

Everything he did made me feel slow and stupid, and it took a moment for me to reach out and take my work from him. I was overly careful not to touch him, I felt as though I would simply go into convulsions were I to slip up and feel his fingers. Once my writing was in my possession again, I felt sad, he no longer had a reason to stay.

His hands were behind his back now, and he stared at me intently, a little fearfully, did he think I was going to run away? I only then remembered again that I had every reason to be fearful. This man had attacked me, intended to kill me, but something about him was too beautiful to fear. Was he made that way? Whatever he was…my attraction was undeniable, but it angered me, it was lust. I knew nothing about him. God forbade lust in the Bible. Still, that was no reason to be impolite, I looked up at him and cleared my own throat, coming to my senses only through great effort. I directed my eyes to his and tried to speak with them, the only way I knew how. I thought purposefully, trying to say words without technically _saying _them.

_Thank you. Thank you a thousand times…_

"You're welcome." He said, looking down again, but stepping back. At least I'd gotten through.

I wanted him to look at me again, so I could try to invite him in with my eyes, but then he spoke as if he knew what I was thinking.

"I can't come in, I can't stay." I wasn't quite convinced he wasn't telling himself as well as me. I hung my head a bit, then lifted it. I wanted to figure out if he was the one who'd brought back my paintings as well. I was sure it had been him, but I needed to hear it from his mouth just as much. Then he spoke again.

"I brought all of this back to-to apologize for the other night." He didn't seem to want to go on. "I was…" He seemed to be thinking so hard, as though determined to convince me of something he hadn't convinced himself of yet. "I'm sorry." He finished awkwardly, turning at an angle to leave. "It won't happen again." That was firm and harsh, a command to his own intentions.

_Please don't leave…_I thought desperately, gripping the door, digging my nails into the weak wood. I wanted to spend time with him, justify this lustful attraction by discovering more about who he was, his personality. I had no doubt he was a wonderful person simply from the past few moments, but still, I had to know.

He closed his eyes and spoke almost too low to hear, setting his jaw. "Please don't ask me to stay. I can't. I can't." His accent was American, and the words sounded strange. How could he have known how badly I wanted to invite him in? He hadn't so much as glanced at me the past two minutes…this small concern left my thoughts quickly however, and I could only contemplate ways in which to make him stay longer.

_I could offer him tea, something to eat, maybe make him think something's wrong and I need someone's help, tell him I'm lonely…_

At least that last one was legitimate. I heard a soft chuckle, but when I looked up, his face was the same as it had been before. It was still…and sad. I wanted to paint him.

Despite all his talk of needing to leave, he still stood there, waiting for something I wasn't sure of.

_Stay._ I willed it in my mind.

_Don't leave me._

_Talk to me._


	8. Chapter Seven

"My name is Edward." He said, eyeing me intently as I stared at his face, fixated. Once again, he'd answered the very question I'd been wondering in my head.

We sat at the small table in my room. The fire was stoked to provide light and warmth, but it didn't seem that lack of either thing bothered him. In fact, it appeared that there was very little that bothered him…besides me. He still had that same tension, invading the space between us. I was beginning to wonder why he had decided to stay if it so obviously displeased him. It wasn't as though I'd begged him, after all. Aloud, anyway. But my thoughts were my own. Perhaps he was overly intuitive, or my face had at last found a satisfactory way to reveal my thoughts. No matter, the point was that he clearly understood me, whatever I was doing, and I began to expect him to answer my thoughts. Occasionally, I wrote questions or comments I was positive I couldn't express, and he addressed those equally politely. Somehow, even through his discomfort, he was more of a gentleman than I'd ever encountered.

So far, I had discovered that he was in London on brief business, representing a law firm in New York City, a place in America I'd seen rather uncanny photographs of. He looked awfully young to be a lawyer, and reminded me of that boy Jonathan Harker in Bram Stoker's _Dracula_. When I told him this on paper, he merely smiled slightly. ?That was one comment he didn't address. When I asked him about his family, he would only say that his parents had passed away, so I was left to assume he was as alone as I was. And, finally, he was staying in a boarding home for men only, on a street I had never heard of (which he hesitated to name). Of course, I knew it was a lie, but why should he have wanted to tell a complete stranger where he was staying? It hadn't even occurred to me to be bothered by the fact that he knew where I lived.

I picked up my pen and found a clean space on the scrap of paper at the center of the table. In that space, I wrote my name in flowing and curly script. I'd been in such a hurry before that the things I'd written before were messy scribbles, but this I could take my time with.

_Johanna Lynn_

I only provided my first and middle name. It would be all too simple and just according to my usual luck for Edward to mention my last name to someone who knew my parents (accidentally of course) and reveal my location. Besides that, he hadn't given me his last name either, and I had noticed. I noticed everything he did, even those things that I couldn't find words to describe.

"You have a lovely name." He said, his eyes still on the letters. "It flows. Like royalty."

_If only…_I thought, smiling a bit. And I picked up the pen again to explain my reaction.

_My family lost all of their money, so it became my responsibility to marry someone wealthy. And, I have the kind of family whose concern would never really be whether or not I was happy in such a marriage._

I lifted my eyes to meet his, thinking. _I don't really know if you can understand what I mean…_

He shook his head a bit, his voice low in answer. "Not really, no. I'm sorry."

His tone was painfully sincere, not like others. In the real world, 'I'm sorry' was a formality. When someone said it, it meant that they understood the trigger, a death, a run of bad luck. They said it because they were supposed to, rarely did anyone actually mean it. I had the feeling Edward meant _everything_ he said.

He was fidgeting with his teacup, only having drunk less than half of what was in it. By now, the steam had stopped rising and I was certain it was stone cold. But he asked for nothing. Catching me staring again, he fluidly lifted it and took the smallest of sips, then spoke again with deliberate words. "Are you going to ask me about what happened the other night?"

For a moment, it seemed as though he'd stopped breathing, but I dismissed it as a trick of the light and answered his question with a shake of my head.

"Why not?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

_I don't know what was going on then and don't care to think about it, but if you were going to hurt me or anything of the sort, you certainly wouldn't have sat and had tea and small talk first._

His eyes were far off as he thought things through. "I guess you're right."

I smiled a bit at him, then stood for the first time since he'd come in. I gathered our cups and teapot, pouring out the old liquid and replacing the pot on the wood stove, the cups next to the wash basin for later. When I turned back, he was standing too, a dark silhouette as the sky turned black outside and his back faced the window.

"It's time for me to go." His posture was rigid, and though his feet were stationary, it felt like he was already heading for the door. My heart sank a little, but I would not complain, he'd sat and listened to my silence, something no one had ever done for me, nor likely ever would again. My skirt tickled my legs and I felt shy again as I crossed the floor to him. I almost reached out to touch his hand, but decided against it, knowing somehow that it would frighten or anger him, and he would pull away. So, I stopped a foot or so away and nodded to him meaningfully.

_Thank you._

"My pleasure." It seemed that there was maybe more emotion in those two words than any he'd said. "I apologize. Again."

I shook my head to wave his statement off and followed him as he headed for the door. Opening it himself, he passed beneath the lintel out onto the single step, and seemed to pause. He wasn't facing me, and I had a sudden urge. Would he understand my words even if he couldn't see my face? Was there something more to Edward? Even more than I'd earlier anticipated?

_Will I see you again, Edward?_

He answered very quickly, sure of this of all things.

"You shouldn't. But you will."

And his steps made no noise as he retreated out of sight around the nearest corner, which I knew was a street with nothing but a dead end.


End file.
